


I Never Doubted

by flowersandteeth



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Consensual, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Enthusiastic Consent, Eventual Smut, Father/Son Incest, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Only One Bed, Peter is 17, Starkercest, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22199386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersandteeth/pseuds/flowersandteeth
Summary: “Hi, Peter,” Tony says, smiling a little, though it’s nervous and fades quickly. “I’m–”“Tony Stark,” Peter interrupts faintly, “Wow, um–you’re my–”“Yeah,” Tony says.Oh, no.“It’s–it’s nice to meet you,” Peter says, walking up and extending a hand that Tony takes.“You too, kid.”
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 40
Kudos: 398





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER:  
> 1\. Heed the tags. Please. This is enthusiastic Starkercest. Peter is 17 (underage, but the legal age in NY).  
> 2\. I wouldn't condone this relationship in reality.

When his mom had said “Your father wants to meet you,” Peter hadn’t really thought much of it.

He used to wonder where his biological father was, what the man might be like, whether this mystery person had ever actually wanted to meet him; but the resentment is mostly buried, now. The guy left before Peter was born, and Peter’s mom remarried when he was six. Richard’s a good man, a good stepfather (if a little distant); so, it wasn’t with the hope of filling some kind of hole that Peter had agreed to the meeting.

Now he seriously regrets not pushing his mom for at least a name (while simultaneously being very glad she’s left the room).

Tony Stark is standing in his living room. Billionaire, tech genius, philanthropist, Tony Stark. The man featured on the cover of every one of the considerable stack of magazines under Peter’s bed.

“Hi, Peter,” Tony says, smiling a little, though it’s nervous and fades quickly. “I’m–”

“Tony Stark,” Peter interrupts faintly, “Wow, um–you’re my–”

“Yeah,” Tony says.

_Oh, no._

“It’s–it’s nice to meet you,” Peter says, walking up and extending a hand that Tony takes.

“You too, kid.”

***

An hour later, Peter’s back up in his room, flat on his back in bed. His jeans are on the floor, where they ended up when he’d hastily shed them after shutting himself in. He rests a shaking hand just above the line of his boxers, easing his fingers under the elastic waistband and staring up into the dark.

He’s going on vacation with Tony Stark in a week. A father-son getaway. _Christ._

As he slowly, lightly drags his fingertips along the underside of his erection, base to tip and back, Peter lets himself think about the thrill of seeing Tony Stark perched in his favorite worn chair, asking questions and cracking jokes, everything about him confident and relaxed save for his long, thick fingers tapping random, ever-changing beats against the armrest.

Tony had looked scandalized to hear that Peter had never been on a real vacation. Whipped out his phone, done some digging, and asked if Peter had ever been on a cruise. When Peter’d said ‘no’, he’d arched a brow and asked if he’d like to go on one, smiled when Peter had blushed and stammered out a 'yes, yeah, sure’.

Peter’s never been on a cruise. He’s never really been out on the ocean.

There are a lot of things Peter’s never done.

He stops teasing himself long enough to push his boxers down, licks a moist stripe up his palm before returning his grip to his cock. Thinks about the warmth of Tony’s hand, the roughness of the callouses.

Would Tony offer to remedy his lack of experience the way he offered the cruise? Smirk the way he had when Peter had accepted, an unmistakable flash across his features, excited to be able to give this to Peter, to do this for him? To give him something he’s never had?

That’s what fathers are supposed to do, right? Provide? Teach?

_“I’m sure you’ll love it.”_

The memory of those words, the warmth, the hint of something Peter could swear he saw in those too familiar dark eyes–

When he cums, he bites down on his other hand to keep Tony’s name from spilling out of his mouth.

***

He doesn’t tell Ned or MJ. There’s no part of that conversation he wants to have, isn’t really sure how to say it. It’s…too big. They can tell something’s happened (because they’re his best friends, of course they can), but Peter can be stubborn when he needs to, and he spends every day at school resolutely deflecting every attempt either of them make to get him to talk.

His time after school, though, he spends a lot more honestly.

Jerking himself off to pictures and fantasies of the tech genius is a habit, an addiction, and not something he’s trying all that hard to give up. The shame and secrecy weave through the heat, give him something fresh to think about…and he does. Tony helps, if unknowingly.

The billionaire texts him sporadically in the days leading up to the trip (regular things–questions he hadn’t asked when they’d met, photos of things in his lab or the view of the city out the penthouse windows) but he keeps eccentric-genius hours, so sometimes Peter wakes up to messages time-stamped at two, three in the morning. He gets himself off, not to the messages themselves, but to the idea that Tony Stark is paying attention to him, going out of his way to know Peter in some way, sending him little pieces of his life so Peter can be a part of it, even if they aren’t physically near each other.

By the night before the cruise, Peter’s given up trying to justify it, and he’s admitted to himself that the knowledge isn’t (maybe never has been) a deterrent. Just a new scenario, the latest in the endless procession of fantasies Peter’s had since he was fourteen years old.

He does still feel the shame, the heaviness of it, but it thickens the heat instead of detracting from it as he settles back on his bed, naked and teased to full hardness.

When his phone buzzes, his cock jumps in his grip. No one else texts him this late, not on a school night.

**> Hey, kid.**

Peter bites his lip, stroking himself slowly as he types out a response with one hand.

_> hey_  
_> why’re you still up_

**> I could ask you the same thing.**  
**> I’m probably supposed to.**  
**> That’s a dad thing, right?**

“Fuck,” Peter gasps, pulling a little faster.

_> sounds like a dad thing_

**> I’m sensing a 'but’.**

“How’d you know,” Peter mutters into the dark, blushing and biting back a self-deprecating laugh. He turns, stretching to pull open his nightstand drawer, the near-empty bottle of lube calling his name.

When he types out the next response, it takes him a little longer; his texting-hand is a little uncoordinated, most of his focus on running the slick fingers of his other over the tight furl between his cheeks.

_> BUT youre the one texting me at 2 am_

**> You’re right. Not a dad thing, is it.**

Peter gasps, broken but nearly soundless, as he breaches himself with a finger, pumping a couple times before adding another–almost too quickly, but he wants to feel it right now; needs to.

_> i dont think youre supposed to ask my opinion on the subject_

**> Your sass is a positive DNA test.**  
**> All Stark.**

A warm of curl of pleasure winds through him.

_> did you doubt it_

Peter’s honestly not sure what he’s asking for, but he needs the answer like he needed the too-soon stretch of that second finger. Wants a manifestation of his fantasy, to hear (see, read, whatever) that Tony hadn’t immediately thought of him as his son, that he wants the same things Peter wants–

The response he gets is simple.

**> I never doubted you were mine.**

It knocks the wind out of him. He drops his phone to grab his cock, cumming in a few quick tugs, biting his lip to stifle a groan that’s shaped like Tony’s name.

****

Reality’s an ugly thing, Peter decides when his mom drops him off at the port.

He stands there during the awkward interaction between Tony and his mom, listens to them exchange casual (if slightly stilted) conversation. Tries not to flinch when his mom hugs him and tells him to behave himself…

…and then she’s gone, and it’s just him and Tony. His father. Fuck.

“Alright, kid, let’s do this,” Tony says, with a slightly tight smile.

They drop off their bags, go through security and the first class line, making cursory small talk (how Peter’s week went at school, and a couple of the questions Tony hadn’t yet asked), Peter’s anxiety building with each step, each word.

(When Tony apologizes for texting him so late, Peter nearly chokes on his own spit. He manages to get out a “Yeah, no, it’s fine, I was up, anyway”, and isn’t sure if he does or doesn’t want Tony to know what he means.)

In a masochistic twist, when they actually board, his brain decides to bring every fantasy-driven orgasm from the last few days to the forefront of his mind. By the time they’ve reached the door to the suite, he’s screaming internally, guilty and hard as a rock in his jeans and praying Tony doesn’t notice.

He follows Tony through the door, to the inner soundtrack of his own panic.

_Tony would be disgusted if he knew–Peter_ is _disgusting, thinking about his father like this, sick for getting off on it–_

A quiet curse pulls him out of his head. His frantic apology is on the tip of his tongue– _I’m so sorry, Tony, Mr. Stark_ –and then he sees why Tony cursed.

There’s one bed. It’s huge, but it’s still just one.

“I’ll take the couch,” Peter says quickly, because there’s a too-good chance Tony will request a room change. Even freaking out, Peter’s not going to throw away the potential opportunity to end up in bed with his number one fantasy.

“Yeah, no,” Tony says, wandering over to check the dresser drawers, “This is a new experience, kid. Your first time’s not going to be on a couch. Bed’s big enough to share.”

Peter’s face heats, gut swooping. “It’s–it’s fine, really–”

Tony turns to give him a pointed, slightly amused look, and Peter’s in hell.

“Okay, yeah, that’s. Yeah.”

“Good,” Tony says, shooting him a smirk, “Now. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been on a diet of protein bars, Gatorade, and scotch for the last couple days, and I’m ready for some actual food. Buffet or room service?”

****

“Aren’t you _darling!_ "

They should’ve gotten room service.

MJ’s said, before, that Peter’s 'pretty’, and Ned…well, Ned usually gives a helpless shrug in agreement. He doesn’t hold it against either of them; he’s aware of his baby face, knows he looks a little younger than his seventeen years. It usually doesn’t cause him any problems or draw much attention, except for some of the 'negative’ variety from his shittier classmates.

Everyone in the first-class dining hall, though, seems to think it’s the best thing. At least six different people have made some kind of blatant comment over the last two hours, but many more of them are _looking_.

A small, still-amorphous part of him is enjoying the attention, and…he maybe (definitely) likes the idea a little too much, that he’s whatever they think he is to Tony, whether they believe they’re related or they’re sure Tony’s paying for his time.

It doesn’t help that Tony keeps touching him. Nothing explicit; the brush of a hand on his elbow or his shoulder, a palm at the middle of his spine, guiding and reassuring. He’s leading Peter around, standing or sitting down, talking with these high-society strangers who keep shooting these _looks_ at Peter. After a while, all of Peter’s energy is devoted to not reacting. Not flinching at every fleeting instance of contact. Not gasping whenever the now-familiar weight of Tony’s palm presses in the middle of his back. Not giving any sign of how it’s all wearing him down to the quick.

"Um, thank you, ma'am,” Peter smiles weakly at the white-haired lady, praying she’s not about to actually try pinching his burning cheeks.

“And so polite, too!” she croons.

Peter steels himself, has to fight not to let his eyelids flutter closed when Tony squeezes him where his neck and shoulder meet. A reassuring, paternally-affectionate gesture that shoots straight to Peter’s aching cock.

“Careful, I think he might implode. He’s not used to the attention,” Tony says, and Peter nearly whimpers at the warm, teasing tone.

“Well, he better get used to it, an angel-face like that!”

They keep talking, but Peter couldn’t say what about. Tony’s hand is pleasantly heavy at the juncture of his shoulder, a thumb drawing slow, warm circles against the back of his neck. Peter has one hand under the table, gripping his own thigh for some semblance of control. He’s losing it, though, imagining what it would be like to cup himself through his pants, to touch himself while Tony touches him like this, easy and familiar. It would be nice, that comfort, that approval, that care–

“–eter, sweetheart.”

_Oh_. Peter’s eyes flip open (he hadn’t even realized he’d closed them, oh, god) to Tony, gazing at him.

He knows. Oh, fuck, he _knows_.

“You’re looking a little warm,” Tony says, sounding appropriately concerned. “Why don’t you say goodbye to Ms. Lancaster and we’ll go back so you can lay down?”

The woman is clearly eating this up, has noticed none of the tension, none of the heat, as far as Peter can tell when he looks up at her.

“Sorry, um–bye, Ms. Lancaster, it was nice to meet you,” he manages, and he didn’t know his face could get any warmer.

“Nice to meet you too, dear, both of you,” she says, all charmed sympathy, “You just get some rest and try to enjoy the rest of your weekend!” After a last farewell exchange with Tony, she turns to leave. 

Tony rises from his seat, and Peter freezes.

He can’t stand up. Tony knows, but he hasn’t seen–

A hand returns to his nape, flexing gently, and then Tony’s bending down, breath warm at Peter’s ear.

“Take off your coat, fold it over your arm,” Tony murmurs.

Peter wordlessly complies, grateful and mortified all at once. He stands, shield in place in front of himself, and studiously avoids looking up at Tony.

A hand settles low on his spine as they walk out of the hall, and Peter is so, so wonderfully, terribly fucked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me almost four months to actually get this second part out, I'm hoping it won't take as long to get ch. 3 posted!
> 
> Hope you enjoy <3

It’s the suite door that snicks shut behind them, but they might as well have stepped into a closet for how close they’re still standing together, still well within the entryway. 

Peter can’t decide whether bolting for the shower would be less or more obvious than just rubbing himself off through his jeans right there (it’s coming up pretty even, to be honest)…so Peter just kind of gives up.

Swallowing, he turns to look up at Tony. 

Tony doesn’t move away; he lets Peter turn under his palm. 

Peter’s t-shirt twists and drags a little under the weight of Tony’s hand, the feeling sucking the breath from his lungs, as he stops and that weight is resting, hot, on his hip. 

They’d left only one lamp on when before they left for dinner, and there’s no more daylight shining through the window to keep the room from feeling how it does now: a soft golden glow of the fixture in the corner, far enough away that the entryway is still cast in shadow, but close enough that Peter can see the way Tony’s staring at him.

It feels intimate; nighttime intimate, bedroom intimate. The same as when Peter pushes his blankets down and takes himself in hand, one of his magazines propped up so he can get off under the watchful gaze of the very person standing in front of him.

“You’re not subtle, kid,” Tony says softly, and maybe it’s supposed to be a reprimand, but it’s sort of gently teasing, too, cautiously affectionate, like maybe Tony’s just as lost as Peter is right now. The billionaire seems more real in this moment than he ever has. 

A thumb slips under the hem of Peter’s t-shirt, skimming slowly back and forth. It’s well above Peter’s waistband, but it’s still roughened skin scraping lightly at the soft, sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, and it sends tiny showers of sparks skittering down his spine, tingling low in his belly and at the juncture of his thighs.

Peter feels dizzy, like he’s forgotten how to breathe. He drags in a shaky breath, and it feels loud in the dim lighting, in the closeness.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, heat prickling up into his face at the rasp in his own voice.

Tony hushes him, squeezes Peter’s hip gently.

Peter leans into the hand that comes up to cup the corner of his jaw. There’s a thumb trailing back and forth over his stomach and now another brushing his cheekbone, and this isn’t at all what he’d imagined with Tony Stark.

Tabloids and gossip rags are nowhere near reliable. The internet’s not much better, but there’s more online. He’d been fifteen, making relatively innocent inquiries as to the billionaire’s dating history, when he’d stumbled on the videos. 

Peter’s seen what Tony can do for a partner, male or female. None of the videos are this: the soft, careful contact, the cautious, wondering calculation on Tony’s face.

“Peter…” Tony starts, and Peter feels nearly sick with anticipation–

–and then a muted buzzing sounds from the vicinity of Tony’s hips, and the billionaire snatches his hands back like he’s been burned.

As he watches Tony pull his phone out of his pocket, Peter feels the aftermath of his own burn. The dry-ice, frostbite kind; the space on his hip where Tony’s hand had rested, and the place he’d just been touching Peter’s cheek, both feel so much colder than the rest of his body.

Tony’s face twists in displeasure, staring down at his phone before he glances up apologetically. “I’m sorry, Pete, I have to take this. Work stuff. Pep wouldn’t be calling if it weren’t important.”

Of course. Pepper Potts, Tony’s CEO and ex-wife. Peter’s stomach sinks.

“Okay,” he says, pasting on a quick smile, twisting the coat in his hands (he doesn’t miss the way Tony’s eyes flicker down at the motion, and it sends a treasonous bolt of heat through his gut), “I’m just gonna go, um. Take a shower.” 

He knows as he’s saying it how he wants it to land, how he wants Tony to react, and he gets half his wish. The billionaire’s eyes flick back down again to the coat, skate back-up and search Peter’s face with something curious and restrained and hot. The phone’s still buzzing intermittently in Tony’s hand, a rhythmic _bzzt bzzt bzzt_ that Peter can practically feel under his skin.

“Okay,” Tony says, voice a little tight. “Alright. This won’t take long.” He wiggles the phone in indication.

Peter just nods, not trusting himself to speak, and turns away.

***

In the bathroom, he stares at himself in the mirror for a long time. 

He’d dropped his coat to the floor when he’d walked in, and in his reflection he can see the incriminating, damp circle visible to the side of his zipper.

He’s not going to touch. He’s going to leave himself alone, let his erection die on its own, because he absolutely shouldn’t be doing this when Tony’s a room away. Shouldn’t be touching himself about this. Not with the how sharply Tony had pulled away, like they’d been caught.

Peter’s resolve doesn’t last long when he actually gets into the shower.

 _“Peter, sweetheart.”_

He shuts his eyes, presses his forehead harder into the arm he has braced against the shower wall, his other hand moving faster. Hot, perfect pressure rains liquid down his back.

He knows there’s nothing waiting out there for him; the look on Tony’s face; reality pushed in because of a phone call. Peter doubts there’s anything except an apology and a set of boundaries. Maybe Tony’s already got the couch made up for himself.

But in here, Peter can fall into the fantasy he’d been unable to indulge in the dining hall.

_A hand under the table, sliding up Peter’s thigh, higher; fingers trailing up his still-clothed length while Tony makes conversation with another guest, laughing and talking like he’s not driving Peter completely insane, teasing Peter’s cock head right over that little patch of damp, stroking him through the denim until Peter’s fighting not to arch his hips into the contact._

_When Tony finally excuses them, it’s almost the exact same as the reality. But this time, when he leans down–_

_–a hand on the back of Peter’s neck, warm breath against his ear, the faint scent of the champagne Tony had been drinking–_

_–Peter can hear amused satisfaction, the promise of what will happen when they’re finally alone:_

_“Take off your coat, fold it over your arm.”_

He isn’t able to hold back his groan when he cums, but the water’s loud; if Tony stayed in the sitting area, there’s a chance the billionaire heard nothing. Peter’s not sure if he’s glad about it.

As his release rinses down and away, the anxiety begins to slowly leach back in.

He doesn’t want to get out. Reality’s out there in the suite, and Peter wants to stay here, cocooned in heat and steam in this glass-and-marble box, with the (frankly criminal) water pressure pounding into his skin. It’s not like it would make a difference if he stayed in for a while; Peter’s sure Tony knows exactly what he’s doing.

So he washes himself methodically, twice over just to drag it out, and then lingers under the spray a little longer, whole minutes after the suds have washed away.

**

When Peter pulls on clean boxers and his oversized sleep t-shirt and opens the door into the bedroom, he discovers that Tony is not in the sitting room. 

No, Tony is sitting at the foot of the bed, scrolling through the channels on the enormous TV on the wall. 

Peter briefly considers ducking back into the still steam-fogged bathroom.

“Um, hi,” he says, inanely.

When Tony looks over, his gaze goes from ‘distracted’ to ‘laser-focused’ on the vicinity of Peter’s chest, and any and all relaxation Peter had achieved in the shower vanishes.

“That’s a little on the nose, I think,” Tony says after a second, lips twitching, and Peter frowns.

“What do you…” He trails off as he looks down to see what Tony’s staring at.

It’s definitely the Stark Industries logo across his chest.

“Oh, man…” he groans, heat flooding his cheeks, a blush that intensifies when Tony snorts. 

He’s not–God, he’s not even sure how he missed that. He doesn’t even remember packing it, had crammed a few random shirts from his pajama drawer into his bag without looking. But that doesn’t excuse how he could _put it on and not even know–_

“You’re killing me, kid. Get over here.”

Peter crosses the room tentatively, barely resists the urge to tug at his boxers, like he’d be any less exposed if he pulled on them a little.

He sits down beside Tony on the bed, twists his hands in his lap. Wishes he had the coat again.

Neither of them say anything, and Peter’s not really sure what’s supposed to be happening.

“…How did, um. How was the call?” he ends up asking when he can’t handle the silence. “How’s Pepper?”

Fuck. He hadn’t meant to ask that; it sounds like something, and not a something he has any right to ask about or be interested in, or any right to be jealous about–

“Fine,” Tony answers, flippantly. “Company BS that probably could’ve waited until Monday–but I think most things that aren’t directly related to R&D can wait, so I’m not a good meter.” 

Peter huffs a quiet laugh, glances over. His breath catches when he finds Tony already looking at him. The billionaire smirks, arching a brow.

“And Pepper’s fine.”

Peter winces a little, but at least Tony looks amused.

“Saving my ass like she does every day,” he continues, looking back to the tv and resuming his scrolling. “She’s a great friend to have in your corner. I think you’ll like her.”

 _A great friend._ Something in Peter’s chest loosens at that.

“Oh,” he says lamely, looking up at the rapidly passing channels so he doesn’t have to actually see however Tony’s looking at him…and then he finishes processing the last part of the sentence. “Wait, what?”

“You’re a Stark, kid. You get more than just the t-shirt. A whole company, even. If it’s something you want.”

And that’s….that’s not something Peter had really thought about. He’d been so wrapped up in just meeting the man himself that he hadn’t considered the reality of being Tony Stark’s son, essentially the heir to…everything. That’s a lot of _everything_.

“Oh. _Oh_. Wow. That’s. That’s a lot, Mr. Stark, that’s _huge_ …” 

The last word is barely a breath, and it’s already out of his mouth before it occurs to him how it might sound in a different context.

The air suddenly feels heavier, like it had when they first got back to the suite, like it had when Peter could still feel Tony’s callouses against the skin of his belly, his hip.

The lighting in the bedroom isn’t much better than it had been in the sitting room; just a single bedside lamp glowing from one of the nightstands, the only difference being the addition of the faint glow from the tv screen, and Peter’s right back where he was, everything warm and intimate and trembling, like he hadn’t just had an orgasm less than twenty minutes ago.

“Sorry,” Peter says, almost whispers, “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m–”

Fingers slide into the hair at his nape, and he stops talking.

“Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is on me, sweetheart.”

Peter’s eyes slide shut at the gentle rub of Tony’s fingertips at the base of his skull, massaging upwards.

“But you didn’t do anything, either,” he whispers.

The fingers stop moving, and a displeased sound slips past Peter’s lips without his consent. The hand falls away entirely.

“Peter, look at me.”

Peter opens his eyes reluctantly, but the reluctance is less about the lull he’d fallen into and more about the sudden worry he’s said something he shouldn’t have, that he’s maybe actually ruined things, now. 

He looks, though, because he can’t not.

Tony’s eyes are intense in the low light, catching bits of the gold lamplight and the colder glow from the television.

“I’m doing everything wrong right now,” he says. “This is leagues away from okay.” 

“You could ask what I think,” Peter says, carefully. “If it’s, you know, a dad thing.”

It feels like the most daring thing he’s done, just getting those words out into the nothing space between them. Air isn’t really possible, his chest tight like a rubber band as he watches the flurry of emotions across Tony’s features.

There are really only a few ways Tony can react to this, and the odds are pretty well stacked against anything good…

…but Tony’s expression settles on something helplessly amused and resigned. He smiles a little.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to ask your opinion.“

_I don’t think you’re supposed to ask my opinion on the subject._

Peter suddenly has no idea what to say, just stares at Tony for another moment before swallowing and looking down. They’re sitting so close together.

Steadying himself with a breath, Peter scooches over until there’s only a sliver of space between them. Brushes his fingers against Tony’s on the comforter.

“I have a bunch of your magazines under my bed,” he says quietly, heat flooding his cheeks. He can’t look at Tony while he says it. “I guess not ‘yours’, but you’re, um…you’re on all the covers. I…look at them. A lot.”

Tony exhales, quiet but hard. “Only look?”

Peter breathes a shaky laugh. “N-no.”

“What else do you do?”

Oh, God. Oh god oh god oh god. He’s really going to say it. None of Peter’s fantasies have ever included actually telling Tony Stark he wants him, but this is reality. He’s sitting at the foot of the enormous bed they’re going to share, he’s sitting with Tony, with his father, and he’s going to tell him.

He swallows again (tries; his mouth feels so dry). “The same thing I…did in the shower.”

Tony’s hand disappears from beside Peter’s on the bed, and Peter has maybe a split second of mortified panic before fingers are back in his hair, gripping. A gasp tears breathlessly from his throat as he’s tugged (gently but insistently) to look at Tony.

They stare at each other for a long moment, Tony silently searching Peter’s face with that same laser focus he’d given the name splashed across Peter’s chest.

Nothing happens. Nothing but their twin breaths, nothing but Tony’s hand in Peter’s hair, still holding him there.

Peter shifts, squeezing his thighs together, wets his lips, sees Tony’s eyes flicker down. 

“Please, da–” Peter stops, the word catching in his throat, almost on a squeak, a blush crawling hot and obvious up into his cheeks.

Tony leans in with another helpless huff of laughter, presses his forehead to Peter’s, his eyes falling closed. “God, Peter.”

“Please?” Peter says again, emboldened by the way it seems to pull Tony closer, to drag him in, the way it tightens the fingers in his hair, the way it brings another hand up to the side of his neck, calloused fingers dipping underneath the collar of the Stark Industries t-shirt to press and rub at the muscle there.

“Please, daddy,” Peter tries, breathless and rushed.

And oh _god_ , he can’t believe he actually–

The only warning he gets is Tony’s low groan, and then he’s being pulled into a kiss.

Peter’s kissed people before (okay, only two people); this isn’t like the quick, tense press of closed lips he’d had with Liz and once with MJ.

This is sweet, slow, easy; an overwhelming contrast to the fingers still tight (but not too tight–not tight enough?) in his hair, to the thumb trailing up and down the skin of his neck, almost pressing on his jugular. There’s no room for Peter to do anything but follow, so he does. Hangs on to every motion, every sensation. At the light brush of a tongue against his lower lip, he opens, and the soft noise of approval he gets in response sends shivery heat low through his belly…

…and then Tony pulls away.

Peter chases him without thought, gets another brief moment of contact, feels the curve of Tony’s smile against his own lips.

“Easy,” the billionaire murmurs. “Breathe, kid. We’ve got time.”

“Maybe we should go to bed?” Peter suggests, just as hushed. It’s kind of a line, and it’s maybe more embarrassing than anything else, but he’s too excited to care.

Tony’s arm slides around Peter’s shoulders, pulls him into the billionaire’s side. There’s another warm press–a kiss–into Peter’s hair.

“Yeah, sweetheart, we can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then they went to sleep, the end.
> 
> _or do they?_
> 
> follow me on tumblr: @starkerflowers

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!!
> 
> I'm pretty slow on updating, but none of my works are abandoned unless specified <3
> 
> follow me on Tumblr: @starkerflowers


End file.
